


Jukebox Hero

by purewanderlust



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 19:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean’s always been in the habit of singing along with the radio, but this is ridiculous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jukebox Hero

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: Written because (a) I am shameless and I wanted singing!Dean and (b) It’s Sammy’s birthday, so I felt like celebrating with happy fic for once! Download link for the playlist [here](http://purewanderlust.tumblr.com/post/22307299357/so-i-made-this-fanmix-as-a-companion-to-a)!

They're somewhere in Kansas, trying to outrun the last of the April showers when the whole thing starts. It's been raining hard and consistent all day, windshield wipers  _fwoop_   _fwoop_ -ing back and forth like a metronome, and the car is stuffy and claustrophobic. Something like five hours ago, they stopped for gas, but it's been nothing but blacktop since, and Sam feels like crawling out of his skin. He can see yellow-green grass for mile after flat mile through the rain-streaked glass, and that makes him even more antsy, the unnatural flatness. Kansas is the worst.  
  
The radio's been playing low in the background, but Dean's seemed content to tap aimless drum lines on the steering wheel rather than flipping obsessively through the stations in that way he knows annoys his little brother so much. He’s exhausted too, Sam can tell; the slight crease between his eyebrows grows more pronounced with each passing mile marker.  
  
Then a sudden burst of 80s techno-buzz notes warble from the speakers and Sam sees his brother's face crack into a grin and he dives for the volume.  
  
"Are you serious?" he groans, recognizing the song almost immediately, but it's too late.  
  
"WHO YOU GONNA CALL?" Dean shouts cheerfully.  
  
Sam thumps his head against the window.  
  
"C'mon, Sammy, you love this song." Dean says, exhaustion leaking from his shoulders immediately when he realizes he has an opportunity to harass his little brother, "Who you gonna call?"  
  
"I do not love this song, Dean," he argues, mostly for appearances, "I don't get why you do either, it's--"  
  
"GHOSTBUSTERS!"  
  
"Erugh." answers Sam.  
  
Dean ignores his lack of enthusiasm, bobbing like cork, an idiotic grin on his face. "I ain't afraid of no ghosts," he sings.  
  
"I should hope not." Sam says drily.  
  
"An invisible man sleeping in your bed!" His brother is relentless, "Who you gonna call?" He glances in Sam's direction, green eyes wide, eyebrows raised expectantly.  
  
And God help him, but Sam hasn't seen Dean look so genuinely happy in such a long time that he can't help but go along with it. He tries to sound annoyed and resigned as he sings back: "Ghostbusters," but he doesn't think he fools his brother if the gleam in Dean's eye is anything to go by.  
  
"I ain't afraid of no ghosts!"  
  
"I ain't afraid of no ghosts!" Sam just kind of gives it up then and there, and throws himself wholeheartedly into singing. Dean laughs long and loud and he decides it was worth it.  
But that doesn't mean that Sam would ever admit that, by the time the song is over, he's enjoying himself just as much as his brother.  
  
*  
  
Two days later, it happens again, and yet it still manages to catch Sam off guard. They're holed up in a little roadside motel just like every other they’ve ever stayed in, another tiny, forgettable Midwest town. They wrapped up their most recent hunt four days ago, and Dean is starting to get twitchy and restless again. Sam’s probably lucky he got this much downtime out of his stubborn-ass brother. After a few hours of Dean's running commentary on everything from the lack of cable to the god-awful paintings hanging over the beds, Sam is desperate for some space. He snags up the keys off the table by the door and flees, muttering promises of cheeseburgers to placate his brother.  
  
He means to take his sweet time at the diner in town, leaning on the counter and chatting with the waitress on autopilot. She smiles and offers a comment he barely hears, and he tries not to think about Dean, bored and abandoned at the motel, reminding himself that he’s a whole person all by himself. Apparently he doesn’t do a very good job of convincing himself though, because fifteen minutes later, he’s parking outside the motel once again, though he could have easily made an hour of the trip. The Impala gives a satisfied purr as he shifts into park and kills the engine. He’s surprised that he doesn't see so much as the curtain twitch. Maybe Dean's fallen asleep.  
  
That hopeful theory's blown out of the water pretty quickly, though, because Sam can hear the radio blasting as soon as he steps out of the car. It's nothing short of a miracle that none of the neighbors have complained yet.  
  
"O-woooooooooooo, werewolves of London!" Dean is belting when he opens the door. He glances over his shoulder and grins. "Heya Sammy! Warren Zevon!"  
  
"Uh-huh." Sam says. He wonders vaguely whether his eyebrows have crawled right off of his face, he's got them raised so high. Dean privately calls this look Bitchface Number Five, thinks Sam doesn’t know about the way he categorizes all of his little brother’s tics and expressions.  
  
Right now, though Dean doesn't seem particularly cowed by Number Five, sweeping towards Sam, a whirlwind of hyperactive motion. "Little old lady got mutilated late last night! Werewolves of London again!"  
  
"Dude, this song is morbid."  
  
Dean shoots him a shocked look. "This song is perfect."  
  
"Says someone who has nearly gotten mutilated by a werewolf on more than one occasion." Sam grumbles, “You have a really twisted sense of humor.”  
  
"O-woooooooooooooooo!" Dean throws back his head and howls, baring his pale throat for Sam's inspection, and suddenly his song choice doesn't seem so bad. Sam can see a line of freckles dusting the edge of his brother’s jaw and he swallows thickly.  
  
With an effort, Sam tears his eyes away. He really needs to rethink his life.  
  
*  
  
Apparently the food and radio aren't distraction enough for Dean, because two hours later, he's snagging his jacket off of the back of the chair and catching Sam around the elbow.  
  
"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam yelps, yanked unceremoniously from his chair. Dean's fingers feel like they're burning his arm.  
  
"I can't stay in this goddamn room for another minute," his brother says, "Come on, little brother. Bar." He flashes a blinding, toothpaste-white smile at Sam and snags up the keys off the table.  
  
And how is Sam supposed to say no to that?  
  
Twenty minutes later, he's not sure whether or not he's glad that he didn't.  
  
Apparently it's one-dollar Purple Nurple night at the dive they've found, a fact that seems to delight his brother. They've been in the bar less than ten minutes and Dean's already downed four of the syrupy dark shots, grinning like a madman. It’s a good thing they aren’t hustling tonight, because Dean is vibrating with cagey energy and even the most hapless mark would make him before they even got started. To Sam, it feels kind of like sharing a booth with a ball of lightning.  
  
"C'mon, Sammy," he says, tipping forward in his seat, then back, perpetual motion. "Have some shots with me. Lighten up."  
  
"Yeah, no, I'm not drinking those, they look toxic."  
  
Dean opens his mouth, probably to argue some more, but he's interrupted as a man steps up to the microphone on the tiny stage in the corner.  
  
"Only ten minutes left to sign up for the karaoke contest!" he booms, "$300 cash prize to the winner!”  
  
Sam's already got his hands up, palms facing Dean before he even sees his brother's face.  
  
"Leave me out of it!"  
  
"Sammy, $300. Legal and everything!"  
  
"I can't carry a tune in a bucket and you know it." Sam protests as his brother throws back another shot. There are eight little glasses lined up on the table in front of him now, dim light gleaming on the sticky droplets left behind.  
  
Dean adopts a rather impressive pout that Sam recognizes as one of his own and starts sliding the shot glasses around in some intricate dance that only makes sense in his head. "Fine, I guess when I win, I don't have to share any of it."  
  
Before Sam can offer up any further protests, he bounces gracefully out of his seat and goes to put an alias on the sign up sheet, unfaltering in his steps despite the amount of alcohol in his system.  
  
Sam sighs and snatches up the remaining shot, throwing it back quickly. This is going to be interesting.  
  
"Dude," Dean's reappears suddenly, flopping into the booth across from him, a perplexed expression on his face. "Did you drink my last Purple Nurple?"  
  
"What are you singing?" Sam asks, instead of answering, but Dean's tipsy enough that he doesn't call him on it.  
  
"It's a surprise." His lips twist into a perfect smirk and he peers coyly up at his brother through eyelashes too thick to be believed.  
  
His wide green-green eyes have the same effect on Sam as they have since he was thirteen years old, all awkward limbs and experiences, and he smiles weakly, pressing a hand flat over his chest to keep his heart from bursting free.  
  
"You're such an idiot." He says, and hopefully it doesn't sound too fond. Dean blinks slowly at him, those stupid eyelashes casting spiderweb-thin shadows on his cheekbones.  
  
"You love it."  
  
 _Yeah_ , Sam thinks,  _and isn't that the problem_.  
  
He calls for another round of shots.  
  
By the time it's Dean's turn to sing, they're both completely loaded. At some point around the third round of shots, he’d migrated to Sam’s side of the booth and is elbowing his little brother in the ribs and giggling like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Sam has to admit, it’s pretty funny to him too, and he drops his forehead onto Dean’s shoulder, choking on his laughter.  
  
"Next up, it looks like we have...Jimmy Page?" the announcer sounds mildly perplexed and Sam snorts into his beer. Dean sticks his tongue out and it’s bright purple, which sets Sam off again, laughter bubbling at the back of his throat.  
  
"That's me," Dean tells his brother unnecessarily, climbing arduously to his feet. He lists to the right and catches himself of the edge of the table. Sam can't seem to stop giggling.  
  
"You're drunk." he says, "You're gonna fall off the stage."  
  
"Am not. I can fight ghosts drunk, I can sing drunk." as if to prove his point, Dean makes it all the way across the floor to the stage, only weaving from his trajectory once.  
  
The music starts and Sam feels a wave of fierce fondness, and finds himself grinning. Queen is always Dean's go-to for karaoke, but at least it isn’t Bohemian Rhapsody. They've already heard two drunken renditions of that song tonight, which Sam simply doesn’t understand. Other than Freebird, it has to be the worst possible song to sing at karaoke.  
  
"Ooh, you make me live, ooh, you're my best friend. Whatever this world can give to me, it's you; you're all I see. Ooh, you make me live now, honey, ooh you make me live."  
  
Sam manages to stop giggling so he can scowl. Because  _of course_  Dean's singing is still flawless, even though he's three sheets to the wind. Sometimes life really isn't fair. Sam wonders, with the flawless logic of the very hammered, whether Dean would stop singing along to the radio if he knew how flustered it makes his baby brother, and whether that would be a legitimate reason to tell Dean that he’s kind of madly in love with him, to get him to stop singing all the damn time.  
  
Then Sam remembers that he’s drunk and dear God that is a  _terrible_  idea.  
  
"Oh you're the best friend that I ever had. Been with you such a long time, you're my sunshine," Dean catches his eye and winks at him, "And I want you to know that my feelings are true, I really love you."  
  
Sam barely manages to keep from spitting beer all over the table, a sudden rush of arousal and slightly pathetic adoration coursing through him. He really doesn’t need this right now. Suddenly, he’s painfully aware of how drunk he is, too drunk, like his head isn’t really attached to his shoulders. If this goes on much longer, he’s going to say or do something stupid. Sam takes another swig of his beer. Definitely needs to get drunker.  
  
"Ooh, you're making me live!" Dean sings, "Ooh, you're my best friend."  
  
Unsurprisingly, Dean wins the contest. Sam suspects that if he could harness and direct his random good fortune, Dean would probably have the capability to do anything he wanted. Sam’s always been the unlucky one, bringing curses down on his family from the moment he was born. No wonder Dean’s always having bad shit happen to him, in between winning karaoke contests and scoring free pie. Sam’s misfortune is stronger than his good luck, a terrible overcorrection.  
He’s nearly got himself worked up to being genuinely upset (he makes quite the excellent broody drunk) when Dean stumbles back to the table with a wad of bills and another round of Purple Nurples, a huge, dopey grin on his face.  
  
"Told ya I could win it!" he announces smugly and Sam sighs, resigned to the knowledge that he’s going to have to live with the gloating for at least another week. "More shots!"  
  
Sam grins back, razor sharp, despite himself, and grabs one of the shot glasses. Might as well go out in style.  
  
*  
  
Twenty minutes later, Sam is drunker than he ever remembers being, and finds himself stumbling out of the bar, Dean's arm slung heavy around his shoulders. Dean is nosing at his neck and muttering under his breath, but Sam has yet to figure out a way to push him away without sending them both sprawling to the concrete, so he just shivers under the warm breath at his throat and keeps putting one foot in front of the other.  
  
"I. I am drunk. We're. We hafta walk back." he says slowly, like it’ll make more sense at half-speed. "Don't want to hurt your baby."  
  
Dean grins lazily up at him "Either of my babies." he corrects, and tweaks Sam's nose.  
Sam smiles back weakly, trying to ignore the way his heart is suddenly thumping out of control. "I'm not a baby anymore, Dean."  
  
"You'll always be my baby." Dean answers, patting his cheek. It's an undeniably sappy moment, and Sam knows it would never happen if Dean wasn't trashed out of his mind, but that doesn't stop the low ache in his chest at his brother’s words.  
  
"Whatever, Dean."  
  
"If you change your mind I'm the first in line," suddenly his brother is singing, muffled into his shoulder, "Honey I'm still free. Take a chance on me."  
  
"Dude, ABBA, really?"  
  
"If you need me, let me know, and I'll be around. If you got no place to go and you're feeling down. Take a chance on meeeeee!"  
  
"Oh my God."  
  
Dean sings ABBA all the way back to the room, only stopping when Sam shoves him down on the bed nearest the door. He mumbles incoherently for another moment, burying his face in the pillows and then he falls asleep pretty much instantly.  
  
Sam throws himself down on the other bed, feeling a little more sober than he’d like. His neck still burns where Dean's lips were and he wonders why God still thinks it's funny to taunt him like this, after all the other shit he's been through.  
  
*  
  
The next morning, Sam wakes up to George Harrison's voice on the radio. "You'll never know how much I really love you...you'll never know how much I care..."  
  
Dean's in the bathroom, brushing his teeth. Presumably to get the taste of Purple Nurple and bile off of his tongue, if his experience is anything like what Sam is going through. He looks a little pale, but it's not the worst hangover Sam's ever seen him through. Inside Sam’s brain, it feels like an army of tiny soldiers has taken up stabbing his brain with bayonets. “Listen!” George Harrison insists and Sam scowls in the direction of the radio.  
  
"What, no singing?" he asks, rolling slowly into a sitting position. "I know you like The Beatles more than ABBA."  
  
Dean's face flushes an unnatural shade of red. "Dude, whatever, I don't sing everything," he says, way too defensively over Harrison's "I'm in love with you-ooo."  
  
Sam frowns. He has the vague sense that something weird is going on here, but he can't for the life of him figure out what it is. Maybe when his head stops pounding quite so insistently.  
  
*  
  
Sam can't prove for certain that Dean is being weirder than usual, but there's a feeling deep in his gut, and that feeling has saved him from more than one near-decapitation, so he's inclined to trust it.  
  
It's like his brother has started speaking a completely different language and it's brutally unfair, because Sam is fluent in a lot of languages (Latin, Greek, Aramaic, and, after a hundred and eighty horrible years, Enochian), but none that he understands so well as the language that is Dean.  
  
Sam's also inclined to say it all started with the weird sing-alongs. Dean's always sung along to the radio, that's nothing new, but there's something different about this. There’s a new intensity behind it, that started somewhere in the middle of Dean's karaoke solo. He just can't figure out what it is that his brother is aiming for.  
  
His theory is only further confirmed by the events of the afternoon. They have to go to the Laundromat, mostly because Dean got slime all over pretty much his entire wardrobe during that kelpie hunt last week. Sam leaves Dean sorting the clothes (it's always so jarring, seeing his brother being domestic, sorting laundry with the same deftness that he uses to shoot down a shape shifter at fifty paces) and heads across the street to get them both a much-needed coffee and the chocolate chip bagel Dean always insists on when he's hungover.  
  
When he comes back, Dean's the only person in the Laundromat, and he's singing quietly to himself. Sam freezes in the doorway, his entrance covered by the sound of the washers, and listens.  
  
"I'm havin' a nervous breakdown, drive me insane!" Dean mumble-sings, "I got something I think you outta know. Hey babe, I wanna tell you that I--"  
  
Dean turns to grab a shirt off the back of a chair and even though he doesn't look at his little brother, Sam knows that he's seen him, because his fingers twitch and the song abruptly changes.  
  
"--They asked us to stay for tea and have some fun, oh, oh, he said that his friends would all drop by, ooh, oh—hey Sammy." He straightens up and faces his brother, smiling, guileless. "Did you get my bagel, bitch?"  
  
It all happens so quickly and so seamlessly that if Sam had been anyone else, he would've been fooled. But he grew up riding shotgun to Dean and Robert Plant and he knows the difference between Communication Breakdown and Misty Mountain Hop.  
  
Dean’s definitely hiding something.  
  
*  
  
Sam's stuffing all their clean laundry into the duffels when Dean suddenly looks up and announces that they're going to the diner for lunch before they skip town. After twenty-some odd years of hearing these abrupt kind of decisions out of his brother, Sam isn't even surprised anymore, even though he knows their last credit card got cut up in the gas station this morning and their nearest P.O. box is a good eight hour drive away.  
  
"What, so you're sharing your karaoke winnings after all?" he teases and Dean smirks at him. Sam’s stomach does an uncomfortable little flip.  
  
"Not even a little. You have to sit across from me and watch me eat everything on the menu while you starve."  
  
Of course it's not true--Dean's never let his baby brother want for anything in his life--and twenty minutes later they're digging in to the best meal Sam’s had in weeks when the waitress swishes by and drops off two pieces of the chocolate silk pie Sam was eyeing with a wink in the older Winchester's direction. Dean winks back and she giggles, vanishing off to the kitchen with a snap of her bubblegum.  
  
Sam doubts the pie will come up on the tab.  
  
"Gotta take a leak," Dean says, and slides out of the booth, leaving Sam to weigh the possible price of eating Dean's piece of pie too. He decides it's probably not worth his brother's ire and tucks into his own piece instead.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean come out of the bathroom, lingering at the old-fashioned jukebox in the corner, and he sits up attentively. His brother pops a couple of coins into the machine and starts flipping through the track listing. Sam can’t help getting more and more curious, watching his brother less covertly with each passing moment. It's not the first time Dean’s been distracted by a jukebox--not by a long shot, but then, it is the first time he's serenaded Sam three days straight with absolutely no explanation, so Sam figures there's probably something worth being curious about.  
  
After a minute, he finds whatever he's looking for and punches in the appropriate numbers and turns to come back to the table, already bobbing along to the beat.  
  
Sam narrows his eyes. It sounds like Journey, but it also sounds suspiciously like something from their newer albums, which, as far as he knows, Dean doesn't have or care to listen to. For someone with such insatiable wanderlust, Dean really does enjoy his set routines.  
  
"What is this?" he asks innocently as soon as Dean's plopped back into the booth. His brother gives him an disparaging look, taking a huge bite out of his pie.  
  
"Journey, Sammy, c'mon. Get some taste in that big brain of yours."  
  
"Which album?" Sam persists, "It doesn't sound like their older stuff."  
  
Dean doesn't miss a beat. "Yeah, that's because it's from  _Generations_. Better Together. Y'know; 'we're better together. If we got our backs against the wall, somehow we survive through it all, knowing I'll be there if you should fall?'" He catches the tune and singsongs along with it, still wearing that overly innocent expression, but Sam catches a flash of something else in his eyes for just a moment. It’s gone before he can identify it, though, and if that isn’t the most frustrating thing in the world.  
  
"Dude, what are you doing?" Sam asks, clenching his fists. Dean smirks caustically.  
  
"I'm not doin' anything, Sammy. What are you doing?" He flicks a sugar packet at his brother's face, but it doesn't distract Sam from the fact that Dean's knee is bouncing hyperactively under the table, the way it only does when his brother is very, very nervous.  
  
And suddenly, against all reason, Sam is nervous too--and even worse, hopeful.  
  
*  
  
"I'm driving." Sam announces abruptly when they emerge from the diner, full on cheeseburgers and free pie. He snags the edge of Dean's jacket and fishes the keys from his pocket before his brother can protest.  
  
"Dude!" Dean snaps, "Personal space, much?"  
  
"Whatever," Sam says flippantly, "I have the keys, I have dibs. Possession is nine-tenths of the law."  
  
"You can drive," Dean answers, "But if you ever say that about my baby again, I'll end you."  
  
 _"You'll always be my baby."_ Sam hears in his head, as clear and bright as it was the first time around. He shakes his head slightly "Okay, fine. Jerk."  
  
"Bitch." Dean throws back, flinging himself into the passenger seat. "Just none of that Top 40 crap, alright?"  
  
"Driver picks the music." Sam reminds him. Dean groans.  
  
"I'm really beginning to think we should change that rule to 'Dean always picks the music.'"  
  
Sam hesitates. He desperately wants to figure out what's going with his brother, and this might be the perfect opportunity. "Well." he says, shooting for casual and magnanimous, "If you really wanted to pick the music I could let you. You know. Because I'm such a great little brother."  
  
Dean eyes him suspiciously. "Yeah, I'm not buying that. Why would you let me pick?"  
  
"Because all the stations this far out are crap and if I'm picking out of your tape collection, I might as well let you do it anyway." Sam's pretty pleased with his quick thinking on that one, especially when it becomes obvious that Dean seems to be buying it.  
  
"You don't get to up and change it on me." he says warningly, but he's already pulling the shoebox of cassette tapes out from under the passenger seat. "This one." He shoves a tape into the player and Sam blinks at him.  
  
"That was fast," he comments as 'Enter Sandman' pours from the speakers.  
  
"It's a good album." Dean says, a little defensively, slouching back into the seat. Sam doesn't look over, trying to be surreptitious, and wondering when Dean's going to start singing weird lyrics again.  
  
For the first thirty minutes of the tape, though, his brother is damnably quiet, staring absently out the window, and Sam starts to wonder if he's made the whole thing up in his head. Really, he thinks, what kind of person do you have to be to think your brother might be serenading you with music because he's crap at talking about his feelings?  
  
Apparently Sam is that kind of person, but he can't help but feel a little bit disappointed. He's long since come to terms with the fact that he wants his brother in a way no one should, but all that wishful thinking obviously doesn't impact Dean's opinions on the matter.  
  
He's so deep in his own headspace that at first he doesn't even realize that the track has changed again and this time Dean is singing along. When it finally permeates his consciousness, he jerks his head around in a completely unsubtle manner, which kind of ruins his whole casual thing.  
  
Dean isn't playing the casual angle anymore either, though. His fists are clenched in the material of his jeans and he's staring determinedly at his hands, knee bobbing nervously. But he's still singing, soft and halting, barely audible over James Hetfield.  
  
"I never opened myself this way. Life is ours, we live it our way. All these words I just don't say, and nothing else matters." he takes a shaky breath and keeps going: "Trust I seek and I find in you, every day for us something new. Open mind for a different view, and nothing else matters."  
  
Sam doesn't even realize he's pulling over until the he throws the car into park and switches off the radio. He blinks, surprised, as if some other Sam were responsible for the action.  
  
They're on the shoulder of some long, lonesome highway, miles from any civilization and the sun is starting to sink towards the horizon. In the passenger seat, Dean is frozen, staring at him wide-eyed, like he's expecting to be thrown from the car or worse.  
  
"Dean." Sam says, because it's the only word that he knows anymore, but his brother shakes his head a little. There's panic bleeding from his eyes, freckles standing out against his pale face. It occurs to Sam that Dean is terrified and it hits him hard, because--other than when Sam is in danger, he's never seen his older brother scared of anything, and right now that fear is directed at _Sam_. It's a heady realization, that he can make or break Dean with whatever he says next, so Sam stares out at the highway like it might give an answer.  
  
And idea comes to him, then, and it's probably as cheesy as hell and if Dean ever stops staring at him like a deer in headlights, he'll probably give him shit for it, but it's the only thing Sam's got right now.  
  
He hesitates for a moment, trying to remember how the tune goes, but it doesn't really matter; Dean knows he can't sing to save his life. "I guess that's just a chance I'm prepared to take...a danger I'm prepared to face. Cut to the chase." He risks a glance over to where Dean is pressed against the door of the passenger seat.  
  
His brother's eyes are still wide, but something flickers in his expression, wavering uncertainly hopeful. "Sammy?"  
  
"The flood's threatening my very life today," Sam tries a different song, feeling more than a little anxious himself, "Gimme...gimme shelter, before I fade away." When Dean still makes no attempt to move, Sam slides across the bench, crowding into his space. "I tell you love, brother, it's just a--mmph!" Sam makes a surprised sound as Dean suddenly breaches the space between them, crushing their mouths together.  
  
Sam makes a wholly embarassing noise somewhere between a whine and a moan and Dean clutches the front of his shirt and pulls back slightly. "You're not exactly Mick Jagger," he says inches from Sam's lips, grinning, "But I guess you'll do." One of his hands curls around the back of his brother's neck, the other skimming under the hem of his t-shirt.  
  
"Dean." Sam gasps, trying to catch his brother's mouth again. He feels hot everywhere his brother is touching him and he grabs the back of Dean's neck and hauls him in for another kiss.  
  
His brother comes more than willingly and suddenly Sam's world tilts sideways and Dean has him pinned down on the leather seat, hovering over him with a fiercely joyful expression on his face.  
  
He presses his lips to where Sam's pulse is thundering at on his neck, mumbling against his skin with those lips and Sam makes a weird choked off noise and shudders violently.  
  
"You got your demons, you got desires, well I got a few of my own." Dean's singing again, his lips vibrating against the underside of his brother's jaw and Sam groans, yanking him up to silence him with another kiss.  
  
"No more singing." Dean makes a small noise against his lips that Sam takes for agreement, and he pulls his brother down again.  
  
There aren't any words of note--spoken or sung--for the rest of the night.  
  
*  
  
Sam wakes up to the sun beating down on his bare back and he groans, blindly reaching out for a pillow to cover his head. Instead, his fingers brush across another very warm body. Abruptly, the previous night comes flooding back and Sam's eyes snap open.  
  
He's draped over a similarly half-clothed Dean, contorted to fit both of their bodies snugly together on the bench seat. His brother is still out cold, hair standing on end, face pressed to the leather in a way that Sam knows will leave a mark when he peels away later.  
  
There's probably no appropriate procedure for the morning after with your brother, so Sam sits up gingerly and starts digging through the glovebox for the extra peanut M&Ms he had stashed. Maybe Dean won't try to murder him if there's chocolate involved.  
  
It takes Dean another fifteen minutes to wake up and while he waits, Sam concocts increasingly terrible scenarios of how this is gonna go. He's got himself so worked up that he doesn't even feel the pins and needles in his legs from curling in the passenger seat this way. Then he shifts slightly in his seat and becomes very aware of them. He's kneading the heel of his foot when he looks up and his heart nearly stops.  
  
Dean is awake, still lying with his face half-squished on the seat, but Sam can see the thin sliver of emerald green that tells him his brother is watching him.  
  
"You're not freaking out are you?" he murmurs, "C'mere."  
  
Sam slides forward a little hesitantly, expecting violence, but Dean just catches him around the neck and leans up to kiss him quite soundly.  
  
Sam's brain kind of explodes in a mess of relief and endorphins and he kisses his brother back, thinking:  _we can build this thing together, standing strong together, and oh, nothing's gonna stop us now._  
  
"So...this was good?" he says, just to clarify when they break apart. Dean gives him a devious look.  
  
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," his brother sings at him, "B-b-b-baby, you ain't seen nothin' yet." He's still singing when he presses in for another kiss and Sam can feel him grinning.  
  
He's never loved classic rock more than he does right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Also, just for fun, the recipe for Purple Nurple shots:  
> -1 shot Vodka  
> \- 1 oz. Grape Juice  
> \- 1 oz. Kool-Aid (Grape)  
> \- 2 oz. Wildberry Schnapps


End file.
